


and whisper, "thank you for stopping by"

by oswinry



Category: Hadestown - Mitchell
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-05-28 08:28:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19390342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oswinry/pseuds/oswinry
Summary: Persephone brings Spring with her this time, sending it racing ahead of her and bringing colors that haven't been seen by the railroad tracks in too long. The load on Hermes' shoulders lifts, while Orpheus watches, and wonders, and keeps breathing.A story about why flowers grow.





	and whisper, "thank you for stopping by"

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "When Love Arrives" by Sarah Kay and Phil Kaye.

Spring isn’t perfect. It’s been so long, nearly everyone’s forgotten the thick mud that seems to sprout from nowhere this time of year: pools of half-melted snow that tug at your legs, muss your Sunday best, and leave patches of glop in your front room. When Persephone steps off the train, her boots sink deep. The departing train kicks up a nasty brown shower that almost dulls the shine of her bright green dress, though the mud has second thoughts before actually touching her person. One last gift from Hadestown for the year, she supposes, and pauses to poke at the tangle of emotions in her chest. Is that bitterness, or gratitude?

“Lady Persephone!” Hermes flows from the shadows of the train station, offering an arm for her bag. She grasps it and pulls him into a hug, smiling.

“Hermes! Am I glad to see you!” She rests her head on his solid shoulder for a moment, reveling in the smell of engine oil and crackling wood and, below that, the unmistakable scent of ichor. A moment of peace.

Before long she lifts her head and pauses. There’s something missing.

“Hermes, where’s the crowds?” She wonders, for a panicked second, whether she’s made some sort of colossal misestimate of the time and brought spring just in time for Christmas, before he answers.

“Don’t you worry,” Hermes answers, grinning at the worry on her face. “It’s just, nobody thought you’d be here this early. As soon as they see green, the whole town’ll be swarming this place. What do you say we go for a drink before you’re swept away for another summer?”

Persephone winces at the reminder of the consequences her and Hades’ fight had on a world that didn’t deserve it – however warm and unaccusatory the tone – but the prospect of a few drinks and a good long talk with Hermes is enough to sweep that from her mind. She grins, and the last of the snow falls from crocus leaves as they unfurl. “I’d love to.”

She’s on her third drink before she gets the courage to ask. “How’s the poet this year?”

Hermes looks at her with eyes that are suddenly very sharp. “How’s Eurydice?” he responds.

She shrugs: an apathy born from necessity and the knowledge that if gods could break contracts Ares would have destroyed the world by now. “The same. She remembers when she wants to. Drinks with me sometimes. It’s only been a year.”

Hermes sighs. “Wish there was something I could do for that girl. ‘Twasn’t her fault, none of it.”

Persephone nods. “Agreed, brother. Though you know that hungry heart of hers may serve her well in Hadestown. She’s something new there. I’m not sure yet what she’ll become, but she ain’t going to stay the same.”

“Ah, well, time will tell,” Hermes responds cautiously, but some of the weariness disappears from his shoulders and Persephone is fiercely glad that Eurydice’s pragmatism hadn’t turned to cold self-interest in the dust of the mines. But the dead are dead, and she’s among the living now. “You haven’t answered my question, brother. The poet?” And then, because she despises cowardice, makes herself say the name out loud. “How’s Orpheus?”

Hermes seems to gather in to himself, and Persephone wonders how a man who can fly can look so heavy. “He’s breathing, Persephone, but there’s no music.”

Persephone feels winded. “No music?” She hadn’t asked last year, when he didn’t appear at any of her celebrations, when there were no snatches of music echoing around corners and the birds she summoned never once cocked their heads at her and flew away as they had when Orpheus sang. But this year – “Hermes, that’s what he was.”

“That ain’t true,” Hermes says, softly. “That boy loved the sunshine, and he had a sweet tooth a mile wide and a romantic streak that took the place of common sense, and he would have gone after Eurydice music or no music. But – you’re right. It’s wrong, seeing him like this.”

“What does he do?” Persephone asks. How does he fill the hours without his lyre?

“Same as he’s always done, mostly. Works – harder than he should, nowadays – and eats, and sleeps, and doesn’t stir another finger ‘less there’s someone begging him to. And he won’t look me in the eye long enough for me to say a word.”

Persephone is a bringer of life to the earth, not to human souls. She can sense the grind of root against dirt, pinpoint a blot on a rose that’ll bring death unless she intervenes, and direct a fly around a spiderweb if she chooses. Sickness in people is something else again, something not her domain, but…  
“I’ve gotta talk to him,” she says aloud. “I bring life, damn it!”

There’s approval in Hermes’ gaze, but he cautions her anyway. “Be careful, Persephone. Feed him too much life and he’ll die, just like the rotten apples you leave behind every autumn. Be careful.”

“I will,” she says, and means it.

  
The conversation turns to other topics – how the residents of their railroad town fared this winter, the young man currently setting his cap toward Hermes (there’s always a few souls, every year, who come into town and are transfixed by his wordly charm, to Persephone’s endless amusement) and the furor caused by snowdrops appearing two months back, for the first time in too many years than Persephone cares to count. The little tavern around them begins to fill, slowly at first and then faster and faster until the goddess of growth is surrounded with an eddy of life almost rivaling that contained within her.

Someone calls for a song, and Persephone looks to Orpheus’ habitual corner before she can stop herself, but there’s no one there. A handsome girl obliges instead, climbing atop a table and leaping into a song detailing the many trials of a farmer whose horse is caught in the mud, with many a saucy nod in Persephone’s direction. It’s a funny ballad, and followed by a funnier, but all through the night Persephone catches herself looking around for someone who is nowhere to be found.

In the wee hours of the morning, the crowd at last begins to disperse, departing with many a yawn towards the warmth of homes. Persephone finds herself escorted by Hermes almost to the edge of town, where her house, built by Hades just before their marriage, stands waiting. It’s almost too grand for her, and it’s been years and years since she last wanted to touch something touched by her husband, but – maybe this year, she’ll try. Maybe the quiet grandeur of the building will untangle some of the seething mass still hovering at the edge of her drunkenness. Maybe – well, it doesn’t matter.

Abruptly she turns to face Hermes just as he’s reaching for the door. “Hermes, why wasn’t he there tonight?” There’s no need to give further detail; Hermes knows whose name she doesn’t want to speak, but his eyes soften.

“Sister, you’d have to ask him that yourself. I’ll tell you, he’s working at the big inn, not that little tavern now. I’ve no doubt he knows you’re here, and I’ve no doubt there’s still joy in Spring somewhere in that heart of his. Not my job to make it bloom, though. I carry souls, and I can’t do more.”

“Except for mine,” Persephone dimples, “I think my soul has been a heavier burden than you should have had to carry,” and the last few words of what had been a joke fall like stones from her tongue.

Hermes merely looks thoughtful, and a little sad. “Do gods have souls?”

“I don’t know. Hope we never find out,” Persephone says, and grasps his hand. “I’ll be gentle with him, brother.”

He nods at her, tipping his hat. “He’ll do the same.”

The door closes and Persephone makes slow, slightly weaving progress toward her bedroom. It smells – earthy. The one thing she shares fully with her husband. Why does that make her feel sad?

Persephone groans, decides she’s too drunk for any sort of feelings, and crawls into bed without even wondering why she suddenly feels safe instead of caged.

She’s up bright and early in the morning, smugly enjoying the biggest advantage of being a god – no hangovers – and breathing in the heady scent of spring: crocuses and fresh grass and petrichor and riotous lilac. It’s a combination she’d perfected over nearly a century of happiness, and she likes to think it’s held up well. There’s still nothing like it.

Her dress today is blue. There’s a riotous display of dresses hanging in her closet, left there by Hades; Persephone had blinked at them when she first opened the door, thinking of her husband and his monochrome suits. But then, he’d known her almost better than she knew herself, back then. Knows?

Well. That won’t matter for another six months. Persephone ignores the soft feeling in her chest, dons the navy blue, and goes out to the fields surrounding the tracks. Already there’s less mud and more green; she amuses herself by making the tiny rows of corn perfectly straight, careful not to stretch the tiny growths past bearing. She calls encouragement to the farmers trundling through the mud with sweat shining on their faces, dropping seeds and covering them with careful reverence. After a time, she calls a blessing on the whole of it and leaves to find the orchards. The sight of spring-gold-green on gnarled trees makes her catch her breath, and she hikes up her skirts and helps the workers as they care for the trees, removing vines, watering roots, cutting dead branches, and affixing poles to some of the most sadly leaning ones. Once someone calls Persephone over, pointing to a shriveled little tree, clearly long dead. Ordinarily Persephone would merely call on the dirt to release it and add it to the firewood pile, but this spring, well…

She places a hand on its trunk and thrills to the life quickening within it.

That night, tired and exhilarated, she begs off joining the group of drinking workers and approaches the counter where Orpheus sits alone. He greets her, but doesn’t quite meet her gaze, and she finds herself frowning. What is he thinking? How can she fix this? She can sense the life-magic within him, bubbling and frothing in response to the scent of spring, but there’s no outlet. It’s life run wild, something overripe and swelled nearly to bursting inside him. What happens when the dam breaks? What if—

Persephone brings herself back to reality, tossing her head and meeting Orpheus’ gaze with startling suddenness. His eyes catch and hold, and the glass he’d been about to hand to her trembles and crashes to the floor. He flinches, and drops his gaze.

"I’m sorry, Lady Persephone," he says, hair falling into his eyes as he falls to his knees beside the broken glass. "I’m sorry, I—I’ll pour you a new one—"  
He gathers most of the glass and drink into a cloth, and hurls it into the back with more force than strictly necessary. He starts to turn away, but Persephone grasps his arm.

"Orpheus," she says, "listen—your hand!"

He looks down, startled. "What?"

"You’re bleeding. Here, let me..." she wraps both her hands around the red-stained palm and breathes, and feels flesh knit itself together under her touch.

_Life._

It’s done, leaving Orpheus gazing at his hand in wonder. Suddenly he shakes himself, drops her hand, and murmurs, "I’m sorry."

He flees the room.

Persephone follows. He’s not hard to track; flower petals fly at his heels, and flowers aren’t exactly hard to spot, for Persephone. Orpheus hasn’t gone far; he’s standing in the shadow of the wall that surrounds the courtyard, twirling a white rose in his fingertips. Up and down his palm it goes, never breaking flesh.

A white petal glistens on it’s slow fall to the ground. Two sets of eyes track its progress, and then Persephone’s snap back to Orpheus. She draws a deep breath. Words. Persephone can make anything grow, but if the wrong thing grows in Orpheus, this fragile spring will be as ephemeral as trillium on a forest floor.

"Orpheus. It’s good to see you."

He still won’t meet her eyes. "I—it’s good to see you too." Then, quickly: "Thank you. For bringing spring this year."

Persephone smiles. "Orpheus, thank you for the same."

"Me?" Orpheus laughs, and if the chiming of bells could sound bitter, it did then. "I did nothing. Worse than nothing. I drove my lover underground, gave her hope and sent her back. Her blood is on my hands, and what is a song to that?"

"Orpheus, if there’s fault to be found here, it’s at the feet of my husband, and myself. You gave us back a song, and you gave the world back Spring. Eurydice doesn’t blame you. I know."

Orpheus stiffens, then sighs, looking past her for a moment. "The world is wonderful, because it is a creation of the gods." The proverb falls heavy from an apple-blossom voice, and Persephone blinks. "You and Hades, two contrasting parts in a melody so complex I can’t see the whole of it. To cast blame in that weave is to take ownership of a song I can’t even hear."

"Great heart," Persephone starts, stirred by the determination ringing lyric in his voice, then stops. What to say?

"Orpheus. Sing for me tomorrow? Just you, me, and Hermes. He misses your voice."

The poet hesitates, but nods. "My Lady. Till tomorrow. I should be getting back..." he tries to slip by her, but she catches his arm.

"Orpheus," and she allows a hint of Hades-steel to creep into her voice, "there’s no need for shame. You did something wonderful. Don’t lose your music."

The barest hint of a nod, and Orpheus is gone into the dark, leaving the rose lying at her feet.


End file.
